


every hour on the hour and so on

by feltstrips



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Pegging, Recreational Drug Use, actually is there really an age dif, pseudo-underage, pw/p
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feltstrips/pseuds/feltstrips
Summary: A better edition of himself would roll his eyes but this is the unedited here-and-now; Five licks his dry lips with a dry tongue and whispersplease, and the corners of her smile curl up.





	every hour on the hour and so on

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of the many sex scenes from a SUPER huge au i made this spring...the thing is im probably never going to finish the whole shebang. for now just consider this a sort of canon adjacent deal where the handler and five are fuck buddies and do a lot of coke together

She likes to be close when she fucks him, and she likes to hold him up, too; be his support system when he goes rubbery, as if she isn't the one taking him apart inside out. A low riding harness made to look like a sleek satin-and-lace concoction, her disarmingly average strap, non-threatening at first glance but oh, is he in grave danger when she puts it on, when it's animated with her behind it. The woman screws with that thing like she was born wearing it.

(Least Five's assuming she does. He doesn't have a large frame of reference for sex-- it's postcard-sized at most and she fills it to the corners. Whatever she does it's good, _oh god_ kind of good, accent it with some vain taking.)

“Not too shabby,” she says, and Five believes her. He lets her take him by the hipbones (not hips, hip bones; she reaches beneath the skin when she touches him) and wrangle him down, draw him tighter into her lap. She starts a baseline-slow grind, smearing the slick front panel of her harness with lube and sweat. He moans and it's resonant, unheard of, too-loud, inches from her ear but she doesn't even flinch. 

“Yeah,” Five says, and he meant it as a question, a sort of challenge-- if he could be so bold-- but it comes out weird, all twisted and reedy, adolescent. An agreement, supplication. Bitter, but it's just so easy to be easy with these pulse-flares of unmoored sensation rolling up his torso and catching on the roof of his mouth. Flash, flash, just like Morse code, radio transcription of every time the angle's right and the soft-tapered head of her strap bops his prostate. He’s beat to death exhausted. He chases his tail anyway, plants his hands on her shoulders and pulls up, suction cup-tight. Maybe an inch of give before she stops him, holds him there, end of his leash, and then loosens her grip so he sinks down, trembling.

The room is dark, the fibbing kind of dark that could be called purple. Natural light, dusky; low visibility, the dilute of colors. Smooth-toned grey and warm violet shadows. The two of them echo against it, the darkness, open air for the recoil, the ricochet, glassine and solid enough to bounce back. Her sheets look almost black. They used to be reddish, Five thinks, but he’s at that wave-breach solubility in his high that breeds suggestibility and doubt in equal doses. As far as he knows ten seconds beforehand the cast of Steamboat Willie had danced a jig on the chest-of-drawers and he just forgot to remember it. He could really use another bump-- or he just wants to cum real bad. Search him, it's either-or.

“Can we,” Five says, cutting himself off with an indulgent squeak (only about 40% faked; he hates the noises, she adores it when he sounds feminine, and she calls the shots, doesn't she?) as she bumps up hard, mischievous, light slap-twap sound, “can we lay down?”

She smiles and he’s never noticed how the special-occasion smile she uses when she's buried in him (or buried in a pile of blow) balls up her cheeks, a claymation-clever shaping, the Grinch grin. Should he be so lucky. 

She says “What's the magic word, now,” and a better edition of himself would roll his eyes but this is the unedited here-and-now; he licks his dry lips with a dry tongue and whispers _please_, and the corners of her smile curl up. She's a mean one; she pounces. Lifts him up and thumps him down, quick stinging pullout that pops a gasp from his chest and then she's all over him; deep kiss, lots of tongue, his eyes romance-movie shut; frisky grope to his dick, fisted squeeze and quick release, a flick at his balls when he jumps. His right canine digs in above her lip. She gets a hand on each thigh, more squeezing. Playful like a Great Dane going after a squeaky toy, gnaw squeal gnaw squeal, but it's her fingernails and not her teeth digging into the meatiest part of him. He nearly wishes it was the other way around. 

She pushes one knee up to his chest and the other out to the left. Maliciously loving; he’s sore as all get-out (from something yesterday like writhing and fucking, he thinks, or maybe it was a fistfight-- the specifics escape him) and the ball-joint-doll posing twangs, more than muscle ache. The concerning type of pain that speaks of something twisted, or maybe he’s just a hypochondriac. 

Too much of her spit in Five’s mouth. Her breasts pressed powder-soft on his sticky chest. The way she covers him so; how goddamn small he feels with her lipstick smearing his face like a paint transfer and her hair pulled-curtain blocking out the room. Her hovering at his hole, still kissing him, amused, a rubbery flick up-down, smudge over it that makes his legs twitch. Then finally, she comes up for air-- gasp, gasp, whimper from Five-- and he gets it back; the sick, sweet drag of her cock pushing in to the hilt. Her cock inside of him, he thinks it again and bites his tongue, sour little thrill at the confession. She goes all-in and his toes curl so hard the joints pop and he blurts out "fuck," slurred-over. She chuckles-- actually, she giggles, deceptively feminine, harmless, a pulled pin (hat or grenade?). 

“That better, sugar?” she asks, it isn't a question so much as it is a gloat. She's watching him melt into the mattress, after all. Five nods off-kilter, dizzyingly quick, and she murmurs _awww_ and tucks a sprung-loose sweat-soaked strand of hair behind his ear. It's getting long. He needs to cut it. 

She says “Sweet boy,” shellac-sugary, presses in even closer. Smothering, exhilarating, her tits plumping up into his face, and four rabbit-kick fast thrusts has his dick spurting untouched by anything but the soft cushion of her stomach. He freezes up and his head feels like it's rattling around empty at the end of a stick, his vision shakes at the edges. Almost choking, more of a death rattle than a moan and it's filthy. 

When she stills, puffs out a sigh like she just finished a four-course meal and leans back, he can see there's a blurb of his cum pearled into her belly button. She's barely red in the face but her hair is a mess-- has he been pulling it? When? -- and she's still grinning all delighted, prizewinner smile, rigged lottery. Five whimpers as a followup and as usual, it's empty space where her real name would fit if he knew it. 

“We need to get you a cock ring, baby,” she says, and pulls out of his ass all unhurried, edging inch by inch; bet she's savoring the look on his face. He can feel his eyes widen but damn if he can stop it. 

“I-” he starts and then, ever bisected, has to stop to swallow because that word sounded more like a croak, “I came three times,” and she laughs. 

“Exactly. At this rate I'll break that pretty little prick of yours,” before he can work up some indignity at being called pretty and little in the same breath she pecks him once and climbs off. There's an immediate vacuum in the space on top of him, chilled. 

She lays down without bothering to unbend her legs, a display that’s uncomfortable to think about imitating but hems her up in shameless, devious ways; heels in her ass, torso canted, almost goofy with the wet strap jabbing out but it smoothes her curves taught, pushes her hipbones prominent. The protractor arch of her spine, how her thighs go painfully straight. Shoulders back, chin cocked. Sometimes when she's so coked-up she can't see straight she'll lay like that for hours and talk Five's ear off-- he’s spent at least one such afternoon curled up against her thighs, dazed and confused, listening to her pulse hurry through her femoral artery, wondering if her feet are falling asleep. Pent up in the heedless fashion. Easy to bury. 

She reaches for her half-empty pack of American Spirits off the bedside table, a biblical temptress still splattered with jizz, clear as day, belly up; his softening dick gives a tiny, pathetic jerk. 


End file.
